


Pastures

by Madtom_Publius



Series: Laurens Lives AU [3]
Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Absent Parents, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, F/M, Gen, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Undefined Relationship, body image issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-28 13:03:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6330313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madtom_Publius/pseuds/Madtom_Publius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John visits the Hamiltons at the Pastures over early winter 1782 as part of his convalescence. During his stay he confronts his responsibility to his daughter, his PTSD, and the now uncertain nature of his relationship with Hamilton, among other things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> chp 1 originally written by Madtomedgar, originally posted at http://madtomedgar.tumblr.com/post/42142875993/so-i-accidentally-an-au-where-laurens-doesnt-die

John sat in the still unfamiliar room, letting the candle burn down, staring at the blank sheet of paper in front of him, twirling his quill absently in the inkwell just to have something to do with his hand. He should write to…so many people. His sister, his father, his in-laws…did they still count as such now that he was no longer technically connected to them? Lafayette, the General, his uncle, General Greene who had sent him another letter…and then there were his friends from school…he wasn’t sure at this point if he’d waited so long that he’d entirely lost his chance to retain their friendship…God, there were so many people, so many letters…and what was he to say? He lacked the temerity to write to those whose affection he so clearly did not deserve. For the life of him he couldn’t even understand why Alexander still wanted to know him…he couldn’t understand why he was alive at all. If only he’d died, if only he hadn’t recovered, then he wouldn’t be sensible of this crushing awareness. He wouldn’t be sensible all. He knew, of course, that he was not going to be able to manage any letters tonight. He’d just sit here, staring at the paper, sinking lower into this well-known pit, until the candle flickered out and he simply could not hold his eyes open any longer, at which point he’d stumble to bed, where he would be unable to sleep due to the fatal cocktail of waking agonizing over his myriad failures and truly horrific nightmares. Tomorrow would no doubt be the same.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at his door. He made no response, unsure whether or not company would be worse than solitude. Lately both only served to heighten his anxiety. Alexander’s voice on the other side of his door dispelled his indecision, if not his doubts. Nothing seemed to be able to combat those. “John? May I come in?”

Alexander was worried about him and, honestly, with good reason. But there was no way to explain himself without exposing his real worthlessness and losing Alexander’s esteem, and he could not bear such a loss, not in his current state. Though perhaps it would be for the best, and then he’d no longer be living in constant fear of being found out. It would at least spare him the dread. He rose and opened the door to admit his friend, who padded across the room in his stocking feet to sit on the bed. John followed, careful not to get his hopes up and hating himself the more for the longing stirring in him. Such wishes were worse now than ever they were. Eliza was so good and sweet, and what had passed between Laurens and her husband would break her heart. 

They sat across from each other in silence, Alexander looking everywhere but at him, a distressing sign. Perhaps this was when the ax would fall. “Have you written to London yet?” Hamilton asked hesitantly.

John had begun to spite his friend in his own mind for his knack of noticing and bringing up his failings. As if he were not aware of them already. “No, I haven’t. But I’m not sure if a letter would even be delivered to the Tower, and he may well be released before it gets there.” Laurens knew he was being purposely obtuse. It was a cowardly piece of avoidance, but he hoped it would work.

Alexander continued to look off into a shadowy corner of the room. “No, that’s not what I meant. Have you sent for your daughter?”

“No," he stated tersely, "I haven’t. And I don’t think I should.”

Confused blue eyes snapped up to meet his own for the first time since he’d opened his door. “Why ever not?”

Now it was John’s turn to look away. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“But why?”

How could he begin to explain to Hamilton, who placed such importance on these sorts of things, the many shameful reasons he would be a most unfit caregiver? “It seems cruel to wrench her away from the only family she’s ever known and force her to cross the Atlantic alone to come live in a foreign country with a total stranger. She’s lost her mother. I don’t want to take the rest of her family from her too.”

“John, that is precisely why you _must_ send for her.”

“Her grandparents adore her. She has the benefit of a female hand there, which I would be denying her if I brought her here. Besides, I haven’t the first idea of how to care for a child. No, she’s better off staying in London.”

He didn’t need to look up to tell that his friend is doing everything he can to control a dangerous rising fury. “You’re wrong.” Was there even any point in trying to defend himself? “I can’t believe you can think that. You’re her _father_. She _needs_ you. Now more than ever." Alexander cut his own words off sharply and the silence pulled insistently at Laurens until it drew his gaze at last to his companion. He had expected to see disgust, disappointment, certainly not hurt. “John, you cannot, you  _cannot_ abandon her like this. She’s half-orphaned already, and you have some idea what she must be feeling. Only it’s doubtless worse, because her mother went away and never came back. You cannot entrust her to sympathetic relatives. That is no life for a child. I should know.” Alexander’s voice cracked. “I know what it is to be passed from one relation to another like so much unwanted baggage. She isn’t better off with them. She’ll grow up being an object of pity more than affection, a burden at best and a drudge at worst. She’ll grow up ashamed and lonely, and she will never understand why she wasn’t good enough for her father to love her. She’ll never understand what it was she did or failed to do, what inherent defect in her it was that made you so indifferent. And if you’re very, _very_ lucky, she won’t despise you for it. She deserves better.”

Alexander was right there. She did deserve better. She deserved a decent, good father and a loving, living mother, but it was far, far too late for that. She was yet another person whom he had failed. And besides… “You seem to forget my record when it comes to looking after children. I neglected the last one I had charge of, and he _died_. Her grandparents are fitter guardians than I.”

“But they _aren’t_ , John. You’ll learn to care for her, and you’ll have help. She’s seven years old, she’s practically old enough to look after herself.”

“And if, God forbid, something were to happen to Eliza, would you bring your son with you to Philadelphia, or would you leave him safe with his grandparents and his aunts who could properly look after him?”

Alexander drew a shaking breath to steady himself, lest the fragile damn holding back everything that John could not seem to understand break. “He is my son. I am his father. He would stay with me.”

“But–”

“John, Frances needs to be with her father. You will send for you daughter, or I will have nothing more to say to you.” Laurens had no doubt Alexander was serious. He seemed about to burst into tears or fly into a violent rage, or perhaps both.

There was nothing for a coward to do but relent, despite his belief that he would be doing the poor child a horrible disservice. “I will write.”

“ _Now_ , John.” His body rose, walked over to his desk, sat, dipped his pen in the inkwell, and began to write the necessary words. His mind had already skipped forward six months at the soonest to the inevitable scene at the harbor when he would try to convince a terrified child that she ought to trust him.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr by publius-esquire, edited for grammar and tweaked for content.

Laurens had decided that fatherhood would suit Hamilton quite well. As soon as he’d been invited to the Schuylers' home at the Pastures, there was hardly a day that had gone by that Alexander did not show off his son. He had swelled with all of the pride of a new parent, insisting that every little thing that his child did was special and significant. John could barely remember the last time he’d seen him so unmistakably happy. It made him wonder what it would be like when his daughter arrived from England. Laurens had always liked children, had always adored his young brothers and sisters growing up, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he possessed the fortitude to be a good father. 

 

He mulled over such questions as he leaned back in the chair of the common room, watching as Hamilton played with his boy in his arms. Philip’s dark hair and eyes showed he had received his coloring from his mother, but judging from his habit of not only crying, but screaming at every tiny thing that might be wrong - if he was hungry, cold, tired, if someone talked too loud, if someone picked him up when he didn’t want to be, if someone didn’t pick him up when he demanded attention, &c. - Philip had undoubtedly earned his longing for perfectionism from his father. 

 

At the moment the boy was busily chewing on his toy horse that Angelica Church had sent. “It looks as though he’s teething,” Laurens observed.

 

From where she sat working on her sewing, Eliza nodded wearily. “He’s biting more and more frequently now. I think it’s time he switched to solid food.”

 

Alexander gasped and chided his son playfully, “Did you bite your mother? Naughty young man.” He pulled the toy from the child’s mouth, holding it away as Philip reached his chubby arms out for it. “That wasn’t the conduct of a gentleman, Philip. When a man has so insulted a woman, he owes her nothing less than the most sincere of apologies. Now, how are you going to make this up to your mother?” He looked over his shoulder and winked at his wife.

 

The only answer the boy gave was a strained whine as he reached out further for his toy, which his father held farther back. Eliza smiled but warned, “You really should stop teasing him and give him back his toy before he starts crying.”

 

“Not until he apologizes for his behavior,” said Hamilton with impish glee.

 

Eliza shook her head, running her needle through the embroidery. “He’s too young to even understand that what he did was wrong, he thinks you’re just being cruel.”

 

“Cruelty? I’m incapable of it,” Alexander insisted, rocking Philip against his hip. The boy still whined when he failed yet again to get ahold of his toy, but the motion momentarily pacified him, especially when he started chewing on the long sleeves of his dress instead. 

 

Smiling at the domestic scene, John nonetheless felt a chilly wave of melancholia pass through him, and he leaned his chin in his hand in thought. Frances would be around seven when she arrived in South Carolina. He’d missed the little joys that came from watching children grow as babes. It hadn’t seemed such a big deal when he was fighting on the battlefield, and his daughter was merely a thought in the back of his head. But now he was sorry that such moments were gone forever, that he’d let them pass. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr by publius-esquire, edited for grammar and tweaked for content.

He wasn’t sure when the anxious fidgeting on his bed turned into full thrashing, but Laurens was only vaguely aware of the sound of an opening-and-closing door and padded feet shuffling to his bed before he felt hands catch his flailing arms and a voice soothingly whisper, “John. John, wake up.” His cries must have only become more articulate, because the hands started shaking him and the voice continued to draw him back to consciousness. Laurens shot up from his bed with a start, pushing away the intruder who could have been any shadowy figure from the terrors that plagued his mind that night. He sat for a moment, catching his breath, and he shivered slightly as the cold brushed against the sweat now covering his skin. But the arms were instantly back around him, and he was aware of the warm body scooting closer on the bed in an effort to comfort him. “I’m sorry,” John whispered. 

 

“Don’t be,” said Alexander, his voice laced with fatigue. He lifted his hand to stroke his friend’s hair, but could still hear the heart racing in his chest through the harsh breathing. 

 

John tried to clear his head as the memories of the nightmare, all of the awful images, returned to him. He felt completely unmanned. How pathetic was he to still allow his mind to haunt him in his sleep, to so be moved by ghostly apparitions that could no more hurt him than an illusion, that he must have stirred the entire house with his cries. Some guest he was shaping up to be. “Did I wake you?”

 

“No. I was walking down the hall when I heard.” 

 

“Betsey and the baby?”

 

Alexander rested his head on his pitiable friend’s shoulder. “They are asleep.” John gathered enough coherency to glance once at the door to see his friend had locked the latch, and all at once he seemed to deflate, latching onto Hamilton as if he were the only raft available to keep him from drowning. It wasn’t even a matter of improper desire, but rather the desperate need to feel his lover there next to him, to feel the closeness of their bodies in such an intimate way neither of them had shared for months. Without thinking, he pulled Alexander down to lie beside him on the bed, keeping his face buried in the crook of his shoulder as his breathing finally steadied. 

 

What was he doing? It was despicable to keep his friend from his wife’s bed, certainly the most selfish thing he could do. He ought to have pushed Alexander back to the door and back into Betsey’s loving arms. He had to face the facts that things could not be as they were during the war, when they had been moved by the heat of youth to seek comfort with each other. His life may have been ruined now, his honored depleted and a widower on top of it, but his Alexander now had a wife and son, his own family to care for. And surely some tryst, some mistaken adventure from Valley Forge had no place in this picture. And John’s stay at the Schuylers’ mansion had so far only confirmed what he suspected; what he feared, really. His interactions with Hamilton had been so chaste, he had begun to worry if he really might have just been another broken heart left behind after his lover’s exploits, the ultimate forbidden fruit tasted and tossed. 

 

But then Alexander’s hand was caressing his cheek, and such alarm was driven from him for the moment. John was only then mindful of the tears that had been falling. His face reddened in shame at this display, and he wiped the wetness furiously while trying to push his friend away.“I’m sorry you have to see me like this,” he apologized again, covering his eyes. 

 

“You needn’t be, my dear. Are you all right?”

 

It was too much for John. No. He wasn’t all right. He was a disgrace to everything the war had stood for. The ghouls of his dreams reminded him of every failure, of every person he let down during his vain pursuit of glory. How could his country see him as a hero? He was the very opposite. A hero did not lead his own men to their deaths in a derisory skirmish. A man of courage did not waste the lives of his soldiers so he can puff out his own laurels. But he had. He had done all of this. Those men had trusted him with their very existences, trusted him to make the right decision and think more for the cause than his own selfish desires. And he had failed them. He had deserved every word of General Greene’s derision. Twenty men dead and buried in the ground, men who would never return to their wives and mothers because he had wanted to prove how honorable he could be in the face of fire. And while he had been marked by the rifle bullet, there was another scar inside of him, so much worse than the discolored puckering across his chest. It ate at his very mind. He had always been susceptible to horrific dreams resulting from bad decisions in the past, but now the nights were unbearable. He felt like he was sinking. He was afraid the darkness would soon drown him. And more than anything, the crushing pain of loneliness weighed on him the most.

 

“Laurens?”

 

“I killed them.”

 

Alexander stared at him quizzically, his face edged with worry. “Killed whom?”

 

John drew a shaking breath, trying to keep all of their faces from his memory. “My men. At the river. They knew we should have waited for reinforcements, I could see it in their eyes. But I pressed them forward, right into enemy fire.” He wiped his eyes frantically to stop a new bout of tears from falling. “I killed them, Alexander!”

 

Biting his bottom lip, Hamilton tried to reassure his friend, “It is the danger of war. All men must know that. No one can fault you for your conduct, my dear. You were defending your country - “

 

“I was defending my honor!” John snapped, but then he stopped his rising frustration as he felt his body tremble. In a more subdued voice, he muttered, “And now look at me. A man completely devoid of honor…I should have died on that day, too.”

 

“No.” Alexander stared sharply into John’s reddened and puffy eyes. “No, don’t say that.”

 

“But it is the truth.” The black coils of shame and regret, of horrible and familiar depression slimed their way through his veins, and Laurens suddenly felt his body were made of lead. If he had died, it would have at least let him go down as a foolish romantic, cut down in his prime while trying to defend his state from the enemy. But alive…Living with the consequences of his actions was intolerable. “Why should the grace of Providence have spared me? Of what use am I to anyone now? What is there to love in someone so dishonorable?”

 

He tried to pull away, but Alexander gripped him tightly in his arms and kissed his forehead. “Do not say such foolish things. When we had heard you were fallen…Can you imagine how such terrible news weighed on me? I thought I had lost you.” He rested his cheek against John’s, and his tone became more pleading. “It felt as though a part of my heart had hardened forever. If the letter announcing your survival hadn’t arrived…if you had been truly lost to me…My Laurens, I don’t know what I’d have done. It is too terrible to imagine this world without you.”

 

Such words were of small comfort to one so convinced of his own lack of worth. But the fire in his friend’s eyes was clear. Through all of it, he had somehow held onto his dear boy’s affections. Even if there wasn’t anything in him worth loving, Laurens clung to this assurance as dearly as life itself. Presently, it was all he had. He wrapped his arms in a vice grip around Alexander, and held him, let himself drift to the plain where honor did not matter, where the world itself was inconsequential; the land where time and history did not exist, and it was only the two of them; it was the only world he found tolerable. John sighed and closed his eyes, letting the feather touch of Alexander’s fingers caressing his cheek try to lull him to a more peaceful rest. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr by publius-esquire, edited for grammar and tweaked for content.

He knew he ought to have returned home to South Carolina during Advent. He had even prepared to do so, thinking over and over in his head about sending a letter to his father and siblings that he would join them soon, but Laurens never could will himself to do so. He merely watched as the Schuylers ordered their servants and slaves about decorating the Pasture mansion in what they liberally called “Dutch simplicity” before giving them their allotted days off for the holidays; but in reality, the decorating was no less extravagant than what the Southern elite did for the Christmas season. 

 

But while the patriarch entertained his grandchildren with stories about a holdover from the Dutch colonial days, the mythologizing of Sint-Nicolaas, while Eliza made preparations for church service in the morning, while the whole Schuyler clan mingled with their Van Rensselaer relatives, Laurens felt not the warmth of the holidays, but instead overwhelming loneliness. 

 

Despite having been staying at the Pastures at that point for several months, he was still practically a stranger to these people. They knew him as the son of the former president of Congress, as one of Washington’s aides, as a war hero. But they did not know him. If they did know him, they would hate him. And the only person who did know him, John felt he was losing more and more every day. 

 

John had never imagined how far he could be swept up by jealousy. He wondered how terribly he’d be despised if it was known how tightly the ugly vines coiled around himself when the loneliness became too much. After all, a public man should have known how to prioritize his duties over his loved ones. That’s how he convinced himself why he had always been so eager to throw himself into just causes. But he also knew the darker underlying reason why he separated himself from those he loved, why he had done so much to try and distance himself from intimate friendships. Not only were his proclivities toward his own sex wrong, but even if they were reciprocated, if they could see how selfish he could become, they would run. And they would be right to.

 

So when he watched from his chair in the study as Alexander and Eliza kissed tenderly at the doorway before Eliza scooped Philip into her arms and returned to the main hall with the rest of the Schuylers, John tried not to let the envy in him churn until it was as thick as tar. 

 

He knew his feelings were wrong. How many times had he told Hamilton to let his mistress steal his affections away, to cure him of his devotion to him? But the thought that he might have actually succeeded cut him to the bone. 

 

“Don’t seclude yourself tonight, Laurens,” said Alexander, walking over behind his chair to rest his hands on his shoulders. “There are still men here who want to meet you. And taking part in the festivities will be good for your spirit.”

 

He still did not understand how Hamilton tolerated his bouts of melancholia, and he certainly was not in the mood to go play the part of a war hero to New York’s leading families. “ _Your_ company would be enough,” John murmured. The hands on his shoulders squeezed, and John reached over to pull one down to rest over his chest. If he could just steal this quick moment of affection, perhaps it would be enough.

 

“John….”

 

He wanted to ask Alexander. Did he still have a place in his heart for him? Had he truly been bewitched away by Eliza’s charms? Would they have to put away their time during the war as they would boyish playthings? All of their moments together at the Pastures had been so chaste….

 

But perhaps it would surprise Hamilton to know it wasn’t simply a matter of lust that had churned his jealousies. That would have been too neat. No, it was his companionship he missed most of all, the proximity of his touch no matter how innocent. He missed the times they would just lie in their small bed, talking the night away, if not of politics then of Alexander’s agreeable nonsense. He missed how those writer’s fingers would toy languidly with his hair. He missed waking up to having arms wrapped around his body. He missed rubbing noses, caressing cheeks, and kissing to keep each other warm. He missed the feeling on being the only one his friend’s heart claimed despite all of the times he pushed him towards marriage, because he tolerated Alexander’s exploits with the ladies so long as that just remained a carnal pursuit without the threat of romance. He missed having someone who knew him, and loved him for it.

 

Ever since arriving at the Pastures, it had been torturous to be so close to his friend without the possibility of resuming their behaviors. And Eliza did not deserve his envy. She had been nothing but kind and generous to him, in spite of his lethargy and rudeness. But knowing all of this still did not fill the hole burrowing itself into his chest as he slept in his lonely bed at night, wishing Alexander would leave his marriage bed and lie with him instead. 

 

All Laurens could say was simply, “I miss you.”

 

Kneeling down beside his chair, Hamilton reached out and caressed his cheek as he always did whenever Laurens said something stupidly endearing. “I’ve not gone anywhere, my dear.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurens is having some body image issues and disordered eating.

Laurens adjusted his clothes one more time, but it was no use. There was no way to hide the fact that the once impeccably tailored garments were now hanging off him scarecrow like. Of course, there were all manner of foppish methods for padding out a deficient figure, but the underlying truth could only be hidden for so long. He was wasting away. The body in which Hamilton had found such enchanting martial _virtu_ seemed now determined to enfeeble itself as thoroughly as possible, despite the best efforts of the Schuyler clan to the contrary. The long convalescence after Combahee had failed to have the proper restorative effects, and his near-fatal injury had left its mark on every part of him. Small wonder Hamilton had had no trouble keeping his expressions of affection brotherly since John’s arrival. There was little left in him to tempt a lover, let alone compete with the charms of such a wife as Alexander had managed to get. It was ironic: Laurens had cursed his injuries for being too mild to free Alexander from their attachment, had been so anxious on his journey to Albany that they’d fall back into their old habits, that he wouldn’t have the fortitude to stop himself, yet it seemed his wounds had risen to the challenge of distancing such a persistent lover admirably. Hamilton’s actions towards him since his arrival had been warm and tender, but totally devoid of the deeper sort of affections which still held Laurens in their grip. He’d thought nothing short of death could sever those ties. If he’d known earlier that a complete loss of beauty would do the trick well enough, he would have gone out of his way to ruin his looks years ago.

There was certainly no avoiding the fact that he was now quite ugly. His eyes had become hollow and sunken, his face drawn, his color gone sallow, his chest and limbs were rapidly sliding towards bony, and his hands, which Alexander had so loved, were rarely free from a most unmanly trembling. Laurens had never considered himself vain, but perhaps that description as apt. He ought to be thanking god for allowing him a second chance and for finally answering his prayers to cure Hamilton of this. Instead he stood wasting time staring at his deficient reflection feeling sorry for himself. He missed terribly the hunger he used to catch in Hamilton’s gaze, the way his dear boy would manufacture excuses this as he now found himself to touch him, the appreciation and desire with which he’d stared at John’s body when it had been laid bare before him.

It should have been easy, were he virtuous, to have bid a farewell to such unholy lust, but with it he’d lost the deepest parts of Alexander’s love. Their purest and most frightening devotions had always been expressed when they lay spent in each other’s arms, to say nothing of the silent language their bodies spoke to each other when words could not contain such sentiment. And now all that was gone.

Turning sideways to examine his silhouette in the glass, Laurens fussed with his waistcoat, pinching the seams to see if the effect would be better if he had it taken in. Perhaps he was being unfair. Mrs. Hamilton had had nearly two years to secure the affections of her husband, perhaps so much uninterrupted domestic bliss had simply cured his erstwhile lover, as by all rights it should. Even if Alexander’s distance were the result of John’s repulsive appearance, was it right to blame him? If their positions were reversed, could John in all honesty say that his reaction would be any different? Alexander was beautiful, and even when his vitality had been sapped by illness and exhaustion, his physical charms had always been substantial. Laurens tried to picture him in the state he now found himself, or with the puffy face, balding pate, and paunch that were the curse of success, even horribly pock-marked, or scarred and disfigured. Yet the effect of each horrible imagining was only to make him perversely more endearing. How, John wondered not for the first time, had he wound up so deeply entrenched as this? And how, if this was supposed to be a defect of excess and uncontrolled lust, could his own desire have grown so independent of the beauty he still found enchanting? This sort of pure attraction was only supposed to exist in the perfect realization of the bond between man and wife, so what he felt ought to have been impossible. And yet, however inexplicable it was and however it had happened, he wanted Alexander because he loved him, and did not love him because he was pretty. John gave up adjusting his waistcoat again. Such a trick was pointless as it would do nothing to hide his gaunt face or his ghost’s eyes.

It wasn’t merely his figure as a lover which was ruined. Popular consensus had it that a sodomite’s sins would eventually manifest in his ennervated, feeble, grotesquely effeminate appearance, and Laurens’ sins seemed now determined to broadcast themselves to everyone through the ruin of his body. The lonely habits he had shamefully fallen into at night showed in the same way. Even if his ideals and his honesty and his temper did not sink his chances among his peers of advancing to high office, it was inconceivable that they or anyone else would ever trust anyone with so obviously feeble a constitution. A statesman ought to be the picture of integrity and manly firmness, no resemblance at all to what the glass presented him. How could someone so weak even hope to be of use to his country? The idea was ludicrous. The best that could be hoped for was that, with a little time, the one problem would solve the other. If Hamilton no longer found him pleasing, there was hardly any danger that he would fall back into the sins that must have at least contributed to his current sorry state. A few years of proper penance and strict virtuous living could, in theory, restore him. His monkish diet and reclusive habits since he’d left the army had so far only made his situation worse, so for all he knew the condition was irreversible.

What spectacular vanity, to be more concerned with his looks than his health, that he could even think them at all relevant to the fate of his country! Silly, vain, foolish, arrogant boy. What a fine show of his breeding, to treat those who had been so kind as to open their house to him to his self-indulgent moping, after Hamilton had no doubt gone to all lengths to present him in his best light, here he was, disappointing his friend and inflicting on the entire family a dull, insipid, and insulting guest. He was an even greater fool if he thought his lack of appetite had failed either to be noticed or give offence. Even if he exerted himself to the utmost for the rest of his stay, he’d be lucky if he could earn the forgiveness of his kind hosts. He dare not even hope to regain his friend’s esteem. And he had been totally thoughtless of the sort of first impression he was making on not only Mrs. Hamilton, whom he had many reasons to impress, but also the potentially politically useful General Schuyler. So he continued to squander every opportunity given him. Careless. Foolish. Stupid. Child. Ingrate.

Well, there was nothing for it now but to do his best to salvage what he could of his and his family’s reputation here. Snarling at his reflection before turning waspishly from the glass, Laurens squared his shoulders and headed towards the door, trying to resolve himself to consuming with enthusiasm whatever was placed in front of him tonight, to being an animated conversationalist, to not watching Alexander’s behavior towards his wife with jealous eyes, to not tallying every instance in which Alexander could have easily and innocently touched him and chose not to. By the time he reached the hall he’d almost convinced himself it was possible.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr by publius-esquire, edited for grammar and tweaked for content.

Alexander hadn’t noticed at first, though in hindsight the signs seemed so obvious now: all of the countless times John had poked absent-mindedly at his plate at their table, excusing himself for lack of appetite; not even partaking in his Betsey’s sweets, even though no man with reason would turn down one of her pies. But when Angelica had joined them at the Pastures, and Alexander had finally been able to introduce his dear friend to his favorite new sister, the sharp-witted and even sharper-tongued woman had pointed out what should have been so obvious.

 

"I will admit,” she’d said to him, Eliza and Peggy after dinner, “for all that our Amiable has written on the particular masculine virtues of the man, I’d expected Colonel Laurens to be more…well, simply more than he is.”

 

Hamilton had made a face at that, feeling almost betrayed by Angelica’s insult. 

 

Catching his expression, Angelica continued, “I was simply expecting something more akin to a younger Washington. But Colonel Laurens is practically gaunt. Just not what I had expected, is all.”

 

He had made to respond, but it was Eliza who chided her. “Angelica, don’t be rude.”

 

Part of Alexander wanted to berate Angelica for her remarks, but instead she had opened his eyes to something they had been blinded to by devotion: John _was_ looking haggard, thinner and sicklier than when he had first joined them at the Pastures. 

 

After the Schuyler sisters retired that night, he knocked softly on Laurens’s door. 

 

“Come in,” said the voice inside. 

 

Stepping in quietly, Alexander observed John, dressed already in his gown, lounging on his bed, flipping through a book by candlelight. But even by the bad lighting, Alexander could see the truth now, yes. How the skin hung loose at his cheeks, how loose his nightshirt hung around his shoulders, how dark the circles under his eyes were. 

 

His immediate reaction was to worry. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Alexander said, “I have noticed you haven’t been eating much from your plate at dinner.”

 

John tried to avoid looking up from his book, but could not keep a twinge of guilt from crossing his face. “My apologies….”

 

“You’ve no reason to be sorry,” remarked Hamilton, absentmindedly tracing the shapes on the quilt with his fingers. “If the food is not to your liking, or tough on your constitution, I could speak to the cook. Though, in actuality, you may really need to give apologies to my Betsey, for you’re the first man I’ve met who has had reason to criticize her pie, and, well, in this case it is clear the problem is not on her end.”

 

Though he had meant the last part in jest, Laurens’s eyes seemed so sorrowful at it. “Give her my pardons. I did not mean to offend. And you needn’t worry over the quality of the food. I have…just not been much in hunger these past few days.”

 

From the looks of him, he hadn’t been hungry for the past couple months. How had Alexander let this happen, how had he not seen the problem? Some friend he had turned out to be. Worry began to intwine with concern as he reached a hand over to rest warmly on John’s knee. “Are you unwell?”

 

“No,” said John wearily, looking away at the floor. But clearly nothing could be further from the truth. “It is simply a lack of appetite, nothing more to concern yourself over.”

 

“Are you certain?” Hamilton pressed. “Because I could call for a doctor tonight if you are ill. What if it is part of a larger ailment? What if you really are unwell? Are you growing weak? Is it a problem of the bowels? What if it were consumption?” 

 

By the end he was practically rambling, but his distress was obvious, which only churned the guilt in Laurens’s gut more. He had hoped that his friend wouldn’t notice a change in habit for him. But then he had failed to notice how he was beginning to practically deteriorate himself. Taking Alexander’s hand, he tried to grip it assuringly. “Do not worry yourself into a frenzy, my dear boy. Ever since Combahee…Ever since the results of that day, I have had a rather delicate feeling in the stomach. My recovery has been lengthy and sometimes intense. It has not always been an easy period of convalescence.”

 

Running his thumb over his friend’s knuckles, Alexander asked, “Is there not any food that would be easier on your constitution? For you must eat, my dear. We can try different dishes, to see what agrees with you.”

 

“Really, Alexander, it’s nothing, my appetite will return on its own.” 

 

“We’ll need to prepare something to restore your muscles.” Hamilton let a sly grin form on his face. “We can’t be having you risk your good looks now, can we? We’ll try quail eggs, and order more hearty smoked meat.” He caught the way Laurens cringed slightly at the last suggestion, and his smile dropped. “Has the meat been making you ill?”

 

At that moment, John wanted to confess; how ever since the doctors had cauterized the hideous wound on his chest, the smell of burning meat practically made him sick to his stomach. Sometimes the mere thought of it was enough to make him queasy. But he knew such reactions were unmanly and unbecoming. How would he - the war hero in everyone’s eyes - look if they knew how he reacted to something so innocent, and worse such a luxury? 

 

Lifting his other arm to run his hand over his chest gingerly, John said, “Perhaps just some eggs for now. Meat…hasn’t agreed with me much lately.”

 

With a small smile returning to his lips at his finally being able to coax some truth out of his lover, Alexander said, “I’ll have something special prepared for you in the morning.”

 

“Nothing too filling,” objected John. “Something light will do.”

 

Leaning over, Alexander reached out and caressed John’s cheek. “Just try to eat more. Look after yourself. Please? For me?”

 

With the way his lashes beat against his lidded eyes, and how his lower lip pouted just the slightest, it was impossible for John to not agree. “Alright. For you.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr by publius-esquire, edited for grammar and tweaked for content.

Alexander was struck by how dark the room was, with only a single lit candle on the table for illumination. And there was John, leaning forward in the chair, cradling a half-empty glass of the whiskey bottle in front of him. He stared intensely at the contents of his cup, almost unaware Hamilton had even stepped into the room. Such absorbed attention did not bode well. He had hoped all of the attention paid to restoring Laurens back to physical health - and already a couple months worth of hearty regiment and regular exercise had done wonders to restore his masculine frame - would have also helped him be happy. But Alexander recognized the symptoms of his friend’s slip into depression, but the depths to which he was regularly plummeting in the past few months had become greatly concerning. 

 

“Betsey missed your company at dinner,” he said, stepping up to the table, startling Laurens from his thoughts.

 

“Oh.” John sighed, rubbing his free hand over his face. He was only the worst lodger imaginable; if Dr. Franklin was right in that fish and guests stink after three days, he was positively rotten. “Give her my apologies. I was too distracted by delayed correspondence to be of much company to anyone.”

 

Looking at the scattered letters strewn across the table with half-written replies, Hamilton inquired, “To your father?”

 

“Not _my_ father,” said Laurens, pausing to gulp the rest of his drink in a single swig. “Fathers, mothers, sisters, wives of my men.” He did not need to specify which men. The specter of those who had fallen under his command at the Combahee river hung heavily on his shoulders, pulling him down deep into the dark waters of guilt and regret. He weakly offered in defense, “I’ve put them off for too long.”

 

The sadness was etched deeply into his lover’s bright eyes. Alexander wished he could offer more than words for consoling. “I’m certain they will understand the delay as a matter of your recovery.”

 

A scoff escaped Laurens’s lips, dripping with self-contempt. “I doubt my recovery means anything to people who had naively entrusted the lives of their sons and husbands to me.” He grabbed the whiskey bottle, ripped off the cap and poured more liquid walls into his glass. “I’m certain only that they’d gladly trade my life to have their loved ones returned, and they would be right to wish it. What sort of loving and just Providence would strike down such brave men while letting the one responsible for their deaths live?”

 

“There is nothing just in more death,” said Hamilton, watching morosely as Laurens swallowed another shot. 

 

Pouring out yet another drink, John’s eyes stared mesmerized at the way the glow of the candle reflected off the amber liquid. “I should have died on the field that day.” It was not the first time he’d expressed such a sentiment, but what followed was more defeating than his friend could bear. “It’s not right I should live. Of what use am I? A worthless coward whom the world erroneously calls a hero. I wish I had my pistol right now in my hand, that I might end my farce of an existence….”

 

Grabbing the bottle roughly from John’s hand, Alexander replied emphatically, “No.”

 

And at such a simple command, Laurens’s features hardened and his voice rose in desperation as he exclaimed, “You’re wrong! No, you’re wrong, don’t you see that I should have just died?” The liquor heated his blood as he whipped his arm and swiped the letters from the desk like a storm that had broken the fortifications holding it back. “This whole world thinks I’m something special, something I’m not! They call me a hero, but don’t they see I’m a damned blackguard?”

 

Alexander pleaded the worth of his pitiable friend. “That’s nonsense. Can’t you see you’re the brightest star of your country? You lived because you are still needed desperately. Men still demand for you to lead them, now in the toga than by the sword.”

 

“And what if that wasn’t the life I had imagined living?” asked John, brows tightening. Alexander stared puzzled at this. His friend assumed he of course would want nothing more than to follow him into politics. What about the boy who had just wanted to be an artist? Where did he factor into the existence everyone was so certain he’d have? “What if I don’t want what everyone expects of me?” Before he could stop the eruption, tears began falling down his burning cheeks. He covered his face in anger and shame at his weakness. 

 

Moved, Hamilton wrapped his hands over Laurens’s shoulders. “I want nothing more than your happiness. I would welcome your company in the congress, but not if it were to make you so miserable.”

 

Throwing off Alexander’s hold, John reddened more in embarrassment. “Damn it!” he swore. “No, I won’t unman myself, but I’m just too powerless for this, for what men expect me to do! I can’t make a single difference in anything I endeavor. I hate this! I hate how weak I am!” When Alexander tried offering the closeness of physical comfort again, John still recoiled. “And I hate that I cannot end this! That I’ve let it come this far between us! Here you are in your wife’s house, where you should be dispensing husbandly affection to her alone. And yet I still desire you. I would have you on your own marriage bed, because I’m too selfish to share you, and too cowardly to let you go!”

 

“It is neither selfish nor cowardly to love what is freely offered,” said Alexander, pained that there didn’t seem to be anything in his power to relieve his lover’s suffering. He could do nothing to convince John of his own worth; his very presence was sore to his friend it seemed. Taking Laurens’s hands in his own, he stressed, “If you live not for the world, and not for me, then you must live for your daughter.” When John only sniffed in reply, he continued. “Look at me. She will be here in two months. You must be there for her.”

 

Tears only fell harder as Alexander wiped them from John’s cheek. Like a surrender, Laurens wrapped his arms around him. He hated how his friend had become the only solid object in this intangible world. And he was starved for that contact. 


End file.
